Because it was summer, I spent hours on the swing 
that hung on a tree near the house 

pumping higher and higher, sailing in arcs, 
light with relief at being in a state of surge. 

I would land once my head felt airy 
and read, idly toeing the ground 

to make the seat sway. When gravity 
needed a stir, I’d set the book down and twist 

as far as possible, gripping the ropes, 
then let loose the centrifugal force. 

Craving a different point of view, 
I spun in the living room, too, when it rained—

arms out like Julie Andrews in an Alpine meadow 
—till the carpet tumbled me 

down to watch walls and couches 
and record player whirl. 

Sarah Carleton

writes poetry, edits fiction, plays the banjo, and knits obsessively in Tampa, Florida. Her poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Cider Press Review, Crab Orchard Review, MacQueen’s Quinterly, New Ohio Review, Nimrod, Tar River Poetry, The Wild Word, and Valparaiso. Sarah’s poems have received nominations for Pushcart and Best of the Net. Her first collection, Notes from the Girl Cave, was published in 2020 by Kelsay Books.

Author’s website: sarahcarleton.com